


Love and Other Impossible Events

by devera



Category: Assassin Creed 3, Assassin's Creed
Genre: Character Death Fix, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:09:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devera/pseuds/devera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shaun is just trying to get through life after the End. He should have known the end was relative.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love and Other Impossible Events

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Любовь и другие невозможные события](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5529119) by [Gianeya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gianeya/pseuds/Gianeya)



The cold evening streets are gritty, abrasive. Shaun slinks along them with hunched shoulders and downcast eyes, making his way back to his shitty little bedsit where he spends almost every waking moment scanning through a hundred different digital sources, trying to see a pattern or find a trail or some kind of trace, _something_ to tell him where Juno has gone, what her next big move is going to be. It’s been almost two months and he’s found squat, but he’s not giving up, he’ll be damned if he’ll give up, because he knows it’s there somewhere; he just has to find it.

And it’s not like there’s much else he can do. Bill has been gone weeks - to consult with the other senior members of the Brotherhood about where to go next he’d said but he’d been drawn and grey and damaged looking ever since, well, the almost-apocalypse. Rebecca’s been gone just as long. She’s somewhere on the other side of the world as far as he knows, as far from here as it's possible to get without having to start coming back again - maybe New Zealand, possibly Australia - pulling apart Animus code and hacking encrypted Abstergo servers trying to find out where it all went wrong and how to fix it, trying, Shaun thinks, to find some trace. But she won't. What happened isn't something that can be fixed, Shaun knows that, and he’s glad Bec is so far away because if she hadn’t been, he’d already have told her so by now and honestly he doesn’t know what would have done to her.

They’d never thought about what was supposed to come after they’d saved the world. Reason for that, he supposes. If they’d talked about what was going to happen after the end, they would have had to also admit the possibility that there might not _be_ an after. So they’d never talked about it. In his less than sunny moments, though, perhaps he’d thought that nothing would change. They’d been working in the shadows so long, underground and hidden from Templar eyes, that he’d just expected things to continue that way. The idea hadn’t bothered him – he hadn’t joined the Assassins for the accolades, after all. But the reality is that everything changed. Yes, they saved seven billion people who are, to this day, really none the wiser, but instead of the shiny new future he’d foolishly envisioned it’s the exact opposite, and now he’s living in a city inhabited by a hundred thousand walking dead who never even noticed when the end came and went.

It’s not right. He knows that deep down. He tries not to let the bitterness rule him, but as the days grind by, the number of times he thinks about how everything turned out exactly the way it _shouldn't have_ almost equals the number of times he tells himself to just stop bloody whining and get on with it.

He has to remember. Seven billion people still alive. And the hit Abstergo took practically registered on the Richter Scale. Their organisation is in complete disarray, scrambling to re-secure their power. Shares took a massive dive on global exchanges after a “disturbed former employee entered Abstergo Industries main offices wielding a high powered automatic rifle and gunned down thirty six people in cold blood before taking his own life” three months ago. There have been inquiries and investigations and audits almost without pause. Whoever’s left in the Templars are currently trying to desperately stabilise their financial base and the company’s corporate image; they don’t appear to have time to worry about what did or didn’t happen at the end of the world, and they definitely don’t have time to hunt down four Assassins who-

The ground gives way briefly on Shuan's next step and he stumbles, tips helplessly into someone passing by who shoves him off into a nearby lamp post that he can conveniently cling to while he tries to remember how to breathe. His hands are shaking and the pedestrians parting like a sea around him are looking at him strangely, and in his head there’s a voice saying, _stupid, stupid, stupid, you bloody bleeding idiot. It's not four, it’s three. There’s only three_.

There’s a sensation in his chest a little like asphyxiation and something crowding in his throat that feels like dull razor blades as it hits him all over again, that he's alive, he's alive and they didn't save the world, not really. In the end, it was Desmond. Desmond bloody Miles, runaway slacker with a comeback for almost everything, who never wanted any of this but who, in the end, did what had to be done because he was the one who had been asked to do it, and now he's gone.

And Shaun’s not sure what he hates himself more for – the possibility that he would have chosen differently if it had been up to him, or the idea that on his really bad days he would give anything, even seven billion lives, for Desmond to have chosen differently.

+++++

The problem with losing a friend while trying to save the world is that it gives you a kind of hindsight that you can do absolutely nothing with. Shaun’s not unfamiliar with this sensation. His flat, when he finally manages to return to it, is a shrine to the concept. His walls are covered with printouts and photos and notes and connections that trace the points of Juno’s influence back to at least the late 1500’s. Of course, her plans were in motion from the beginning, but that’s as far as he’s been able to trace with any real accuracy. And he can see it, how she managed it - a subtle chain of events that in isolation were utterly without importance but that together led directly to the only thing that mattered to her, to be free.

It’s an exercise in self-abuse, in some ways. There’s nothing he can do with this knowledge, but it’s either that or think about what else he’s learned through hindsight, about himself and about how he feels. It all seems so blatantly obvious now, so painfully, pathetically obvious, and the realisation, the not-so-shocking self-discovery, is like some kind of monster let out of its box, running around, tearing the place up, refusing to go back in again. He can't- He can't listen to it screaming uselessly in there, so instead he ignores it. He focuses on what he knows, what he can control, piecing things together, picking apart the past to find the patterns.

If he just keeps doing that, he tells himself, promises himself, just one more day, then another, and another, maybe he’ll find something they can use, maybe he’ll find a way to stop her. Maybe it’ll be tomorrow, and then it’s tomorrow and he doesn’t, so maybe it’ll be the next day, or the next, or the next...

It’s the best he’s got, under the circumstances. It gives him a reason to shovel the food he went out to buy into his mouth, and swallow, and tell himself he’s saving the rest of the bottle of Glenfiddich that’s sitting on the table by the open window for a special occasion. He’d been saving the bottle before that one for the same reason, and the bottle before that. But this one, he’s definitely saving. He’s close. He knows there’ll be a breakthrough soon. There’ll be reason to celebrate then. He knows there will.

He takes his dinner over to his workstation and logs in as he eats. Maybe Bec will have something, although he doesn’t hear from her with any regularity. He checks the network chatter but there’s no news anywhere and none of Bec’s usual usernames turn up in any of the monitored rooms. He gives it up an hour later and returns to his research, loses himself in it for a while until he can't keep his eyes open any longer and tosses the leftover takeaway into the no-man's land of his refrigerator, turns out the lights and falls into bed to hopefully sleep without dreaming.

After all, dreams are like hindsight; he can't do anything about them, either.

+++++

He wakes in the middle of the night - or he thinks he's awake - to find someone in his flat. Except he can't move, and he's not sure they're there, an indistinct semi-solid shape in the near-pitch darkness just standing there a little left of the door, like a coat stand. His heart is pounding, because his brain is babbling _Templars, Juno, dead, dead, dead_ , but if he can't move, it seems the shadow can't either. He draws in a shaky breath in order to speak, blinks and the shadow is gone like it was never there. He blinks again, suddenly unfrozen, lurches out of bed, fumbles for the light, turns towards the door...

No one is there. No one was ever there. He's dreaming. Or crazy. That's a possibility too. He feels his heart rate slowing down again, but he's awake now. The gift of adrenaline. He sighs and turns back towards the bedside table, with the intention of getting out of bed, maybe getting back to work for a couple of hours.

His body realises before his brain, peripheral vision picking up the incongruent shape now on the other side of his room, something not part of the usual landscape. His pulse trips violently and his muscles twitch, jerking him in the direction of the window and the figure standing th-

Shaun's entire system flushes cold, goose-flesh rippling up his back, making his hair stand on end, because he can't be seeing- He can't- It's not -

"Desmond?" he hears someone say, but somehow he doesn't recognise the voice.

Desmond Miles, standing in the middle of Shaun's apartment, looking exactly like he did the day he _died_ , smiles. Sort of.

"Hey, Shaun," he says, baldly normal, offensively real. "You look like shit. And you slept in your clothes."

Shaun stares, open mouthed. If this isn't- If it isn't real, if Shaun's still dreaming, even if it's some kind of cruel trick of Juno's or the Templars', he doesn't actually care. If he's crazy, then he's through with sanity, absolutely through with it.

"Desmond," he chokes, no snarky put down, no sarcastic quip, just ferocious, rending truth, and Desmond's face collapses into something that Shaun understands, recognises as human because he can _feel_ it, right in the centre of his being, a jagged, ragged, hollow ache that he didn't realise was there, because he’s done everything for the last several months but let himself think about it. 

He doesn't make a conscious choice to get off the bed; he's just suddenly in the middle of the tiny room and Desmond is right there, Christ, he's touching him. He feels real. He's warm and solid and Shaun is pressing close, arms wrapped around him in a bear hug, pressing his face to Desmond's over and over, and Desmond is saying, "I know. I know. No.", his hands clenching on Shaun’s shoulders and Shaun realises he's saying, "You were dead, you were dead, you're not dead." 

He’s not dead. He’s real. Shaun doesn’t know how, or why. He can't see the pattern that led here. But he can see the past, all the things he didn't do and didn’t say that he should have when he had the chance. He can see right now. 

"Desmond," he hears himself say again, a strange, wrecked vocalisation and then Desmond is making an even worse sound, lost and lonely and desperate, and it's echoing in the cavern of Shaun's mouth as he kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. 

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Desmond gasps against Shaun's mouth, things that Shaun never wants to hear again. He's pressing into Shaun like he can make of himself an imprint, like he can merge himself into Shaun and Shaun wants that, wants it more than he even wants to draw his next breath.

"You're alive," he says, can't stop thinking it but surely hallucinations aren't this real, can't be this real. "How are you alive?" It's not- He can't even process it, so it's not that he's really looking for an answer, and Desmond doesn't give him one.

"I don't know." He laughs, a short, hysterical sound. "I have no fucking idea. I was- I was there, for a... for a while. And then I was here. I'm here, right? How long has it- I mean, when-" 

"It's been three months," Shaun grates. "Three sodding horrible months, and Jesus Bloody Christ, _Desmond_."

Words are utterly useless, pointless. They can't possibly express the extremes of loss and disbelief and grief and anger that has been the last three months up until this delirious, perfect _second_. He kisses Desmond again, hard and deep like he can drink him up, like he can swallow him down and never, ever lose him again and Desmond is practically climbing him and moaning into his mouth and oh, God, he wants this, they could have _had_ this, but they didn't and then it was too late and Shaun won't make the same mistake twice. History will not repeat. He propels them both across the floor, no awareness of where to until Desmond's back hits a wall and they both stagger sideways into the table. Desmond flings an arm out to stabilise them and something goes crashing to the floor but Shaun's too busy kissing, too busy getting his hands under clothes, Christ the same- the same gear Desmond was wearing when he- when Shaun last saw him and it can't be real, it can't be real, but he doesn't care. He practically tears the damn hoodie off, Desmond grunting and gasping and struggling in the tangle of sleeves and zip until he's down to his tee and Shaun's hands underneath it are dragging on his skin, palming his shoulder blades and the bumps of his vertebrae, fingertips scoring, trying to dig down under flesh to bone and deeper as he presses Desmond against him and just breathes him in, face dug into the hollow of his shoulder for a moment while the world suddenly makes sense again. He feels so good, so good.

"Jesus fucking-" Desmond pants, tugging violently at Shaun's open collar. A couple of buttons and the fabric part ways. "Off. Get this fucking thing off." But he doesn't really need the help and Shaun's too busy biting around the collar of Desmond's tee and listening to him gasp out obscenities to offer a hand. Desmond gives up on the shirt, leaving it half open, and starts tugging frantically at Shaun’s belt. The uncoordinated fumble of his hands does nothing to diminish the jolt of electricity that arcs through Shaun at the contact and suddenly he’s returning the favour, wrenching Desmond’s jeans open hard enough to tug him off balance. They stumble into the table again, which tips for a moment before righting itself. Neither of them pay it any attention, too busy swearing and choking on words lost in each other’s mouths as they get their hands on each other’s cocks.

Shaun gets in two, maybe three long, desperate pulls of Desmond’s cock that practically drag Desmond, moaning, up onto his toes. His breath is hot and ragged against Shaun’s mouth and chin and cheek and he's pressed against Shaun from knees to noggin like he wants to crawl under Shaun's skin. Shaun strokes again, harder, sucking on Desmond's tongue more than kissing him and Desmond makes a smothered, sharp noise in Shaun's mouth and then he’s coming in Shaun’s fist, clutching Shaun fiercely to him with his free arm. His hand on Shaun’s cock squeezes involuntarily, a little too hard and absolutely sodding perfect, enough to make Shaun gasp and thrust into his grip, unable to control himself, a knee-jerk reaction that causes Desmond to stagger back into the wall behind him again, Shaun falling with him as he thrusts, and he’s so close, so-

“Shaun,” Desmond breathes and he’s never heard Desmond say his name like that before, or anyone’s, like a revelation. “ _Shaun_.”

Shaun screws his eyes shut and blindly searches for Desmond’s mouth again, feels Desmond’s thumb press against the underside of the glans on the next stroke and it’s like it turns some switch in Shaun’s brain he didn’t even know he had. His orgasm hits him like a punch to the belly, stealing his breath and blackening his vision for long, painfully pleasurable moments until he comes back to the sound of himself saying Desmond’s name over and over, breathless, like a promise or a prayer. 

And Desmond is smiling, smiling at him like it really is, like everything’s all right now. Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t, but endorphins and joy mean that Shaun doesn’t really care about that either. 

“So, yeah,” Desmond murmurs, panting, his voice sweeter than Shaun has ever heard it and sounding a little like he's just continuing a conversation they already started. “I was maybe going to mention that I liked you first, before I tried to get into your pants.” 

Shaun breathes out a laugh and just wraps his arm around Desmond’s shoulders and ignores how weird it feels to be standing there with his dick hanging out and his other hand sticky on Desmond’s bare hip. 

“You know,” he says, unable to stop smiling himself. “It’s testament to exactly how weird my life is that I am not even worried about that part.” 

“How weird _your_ life is,” Desmond scoffs, turning his head to press a kiss against the side of Shaun’s throat. 

That startles another laugh out of Shaun, louder this time, and he straightens and grins at Desmond, and he has never been more grateful for the weirdness in his life.

+++++++ 

So, this is Shaun's new normal:  Desmond, a messiah in a hoodie and scungy sneakers back from the dead and now sitting at Shaun's little two-seat dining table, in his boxers, eating Shaun's leftovers and grinning at him between bites. Normal is the mild panic that claws briefly at his throat when Desmond falls into bed beside him an hour later, the way it just disappears when Desmond looks at him and says, "What? Where else am I going to sleep? You don't have a sofa, man," and then reaches for him with warm hands and a soft smile curving his mouth. It's not that he's here that makes Shaun feel like he wants to curl up into a ball in the corner for a bit, not his closeness; it's how much Shaun wants those hands to touch him, wants that smile against his skin. It's how much Desmond is- Christ, Desmond is everything he never knew he wanted until he was-

Right, that's a river in Egypt. He's not thinking about that until it's possible to think about it with a lot less what-the-fucking-fuck involved. But what if... What if he wakes up and he really _has_ gone temporarily crazy or something? He lurches up and tackles Desmond back down onto the mattress, and the _oof_ Desmond laughs out as they hit is so real, so mundane it just makes Shaun hold him tighter. 

"Hey," Desmond says gently after a few long, silent moments where Shaun's pretty sure he's shaking and equally sure he's not going to be stopping any time soon. "I'm not going anywhere." 

Shaun wants to tell him to promise, except he's too afraid that Desmond won't be able to answer. He falls asleep like that, eventually. He doesn't even care that his arm is falling asleep under Desmond's very real weight. Desmond is stroking his side with one hand, slowly, over and over, in time with every breath he takes. 

++++++++ 

He wakes up again - no idea what time it is, but it's still dark. He's alone in bed and for one horrible moment he thinks he imagined it all. 

And then he rolls over and sees Desmond standing in front of the workstation, and- 

Holy shit. 

“Desmond, what the sodding _hell_?!”

“Oh, hey Shaun,” Desmond says, sounding a little vague, as if his attention is elsewhere.

Shaun rolls out of bed, and carefully to his feet.

“Desmond, you’re ah, you’re glowing, mate. I know the sex was good, but I’m thinking that’s probably not natural.” 

“I’m what?” Desmond says distantly, looking down at himself for a moment. “Oh. Okay, well, that’s kind of new. Interesting.”

“Also,” Shaun says, walking over to where Desmond is standing to stare in what he's fairly sure is astonishment. “You seem to be controlling my computer with the power of your mind.”

Every single monitor is on, screens scrolling at an impossible rate, like the kind of blockbuster movie technology that Shaun used to scoff at before when he had a life that included going to the movies. 

“Uh, yeah, I… There’s something…” The screen flickers. Data starts scrolling across it, too fast for Shaun to make any kind of sense of; maps, networks, IP addresses or perhaps geolocations, surveillance imagery, and god knows what else. “I thought I felt…” 

“What?” Shaun presses, and reaches out to touch him. He expects Desmond to feel different, considering how he’s currently giving off enough light to power a solar battery, but he feels like he’s always felt, warm, strong, human.

“Juno,” Desmond answers, a note of triumph in his voice. “Hello, bitch. I can see you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was yet another fic that I started based on a long forgotten kinkmeme prompt. I'm so slack in that respect. That being said, I wanted to finish this one because, well, to be honest I'm still not over feeling betrayed and abandoned by Ubisoft. I respected the narrative conclusion of AC3, but after that it seemed like all the marketing and hype for AC4 was 100% pirates and zero modern narrative. While that portion of the story in the previous games made up only 10% of the gameplay, I still felt like it was the meaningful part. It drove events. It gave context. To completely disregard its importance when selling the 4th game felt to me like they'd decided it didn't matter and had in fact never happened, and I really resented that.
> 
> So much in fact that I _still_ haven't been able to bring myself to buy AC4, so I have no idea whether this little Shaun/Des reunion fix it fic contradicts it. I'd be happy if it did, because that would mean I'm wrong about how they're continuing the modern assassins' story. Well, even if they did bring Desmond back, pretty sure it wouldn't go like this. I don't plan on continuing this, but I just wanted to bring Desmond back into the fight my way. That is, the porny way, if anyone was wondering.


End file.
